Where Poppies grow
by letitbeme.x
Summary: July 1917, Passchendaele, WW1 reaches new heights of brutality, two young lovers separated by circumstances out of their control live their life under war. Everything is uncertain, nothing more so than their future.
1. Chapter 1

**All recognisable charecters belong to Stephanie meyer.**

**I am really interested in history, WW1 has always struck my interest, not just because of the colossal unnecessary human loss, the advancement in technologies but also because of the extraordinary stories of love, loss and bravery that have come out of those four years in which the world were at war. So I have written my own story. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you. xxx**

_July 30th 1917, Passchendaele France._

Blood, so much blood. It seeped into my cloths, my skin.

My hands were busy, their rhythmic movements as perfectly the same as the last.

"Nurse sawn, you are required in ward 4, major burns." Nurse Platt said to me, her gentle face contorted in horror.

"Yes sister." I replied.

I handed the tweezers to nurse Webber, her face was like stone, no emotion was shown, but I knew better I knew the turmoil behind her brown glazed eyes. I knew because I had the same battle that raged inside me. I wanted to scream and hide in a corner, I wanted to sob and curse and hide under the bed. But I couldn t and I would not, I have a duty, I have a mission.

I made my way to the ward, I passed my fellow nurses, my fellow stone faced nurses. Patients stood or sat against the white washed walls, fresh bandages encased parts of them. They chatted in their uniforms, some smoked and played cards. And then there were the ones who just stared, their eyes not seeing but the images were played out behind them.

This was the peaceful passage between wards, you could stand here in the hallway and forget the horrors you left at the previous door and the ones were going to face behind the next one, but the evidence was everywhere, the missing limbs of soldiers, the crimson stains on bandages and that ever present smell of blood mixed with earth. War was everywhere.

I readjusted my apron, a spatter of blood marred the front, it blended into the Red Cross and disfigured it, and my cuffs were in a worse state. I had no time to change them, we have no time to do anything anymore, even thinking took up too much time. We don't think anymore.

I opened the door, the atrocities set before me were beyond comprehension, such animosities surely were not the work of human hands. These superhuman inhumanities made my stomach turn painfully causing a sick feeling to rise.

Rows upon rows of beds occupied the long room, each end unseen in the midst of wounded half dead men that lay in the white beds, except the beds were not all white, distinct blotches of crimson stained the once pristine sheets. The smell of that room was I can only explain as being that of death, raw heated death.

The moans sounded as if they were from hell, the burning pain in their cries for help scratched at my heart, I could barely drown out the suffocating feeling of despaired that threatened to consume me.

I pretended to be both blind and dumb to my surroundings; I tried to ignore the hands that reached out at me of the men who thought me to be a loved one in their delirium. Too much blood and not enough hands to stop it.

I spotted ward sister hale, she was standing at the end of a bed she held her clip bored and was scribbling quickly. A thin strand of blonde hair stuck out from her cap, her usually strict posture was slouched. Even the stress has got to her, it has reached every one.

I walked towards her, I passed bed upon bed, and each occupied by a disfigured soldier, bandages and slings and missing limbs filled the corners of my eyes. I kept my focus on Sister Hale, I always focus on other things.

"Ah nurse swan, I need you to re-dress private Newton's dressings on his head. "She said tiredly, her face was shiny with perspiration. "Yes sister." I said and went to sit at the head on the bed.

Sister hale walked away slowly; there was a slight shuffle to the way she walked.

I looked over private Newton, his bed sheets were tucked tightly either side of him cocooning him to the bed. His arms lay still at his sides, his hands were bandaged tightly all of his fingers encased and concealed from view. He has suffered head to toe burns.

"Good after noon private newton. I am just going to re-do these dressing now." I said to him gently, I need to make him know that I am here and what I am going to do. I don t need to though he was sleeping peacefully, morphine is an amazing invention.

I reached for the scissors and started to cut away the crusty blackened bandage from his head. I tried to keep my breathing calm and steady but the smell of dried blood clogged my nostrils, it made my stomach nauseous. My hands were shaking.

Private Newton grumbled something; he was awake "Be still private, this will only take a moment." I reassured him. He grumbled in response, I peeled away the bandage; the flesh I revealed was a patch of jagged, black and disfigured flesh. A mixture of blood and puss oozed from the gashes. I held my breath.

I soaked a cotton bud and whipped the wound clean; flecks of burnt black skin came away. Once it was clean I stitched it up and re did the dressings.

The doctor soon came and read ministered private newton some morphine."Am I still alive?" his gruff voice asked."Yes private you are still alive, still alive and kicking if I do say so myself." I replied trying to sound cheerful. This is what we do; we try to keep up the moral.

"Good." he muttered then went silent.

"Nice work, Nurse Swan. I see you have learnt how to bandage nicely." Doctor Cullen commented as he checked private Newton's vitals.

I watched as his agile fingers checked Private Newton. He was a handsome man, tall, blonde and brave. We call him our "Angel", the only completely sane man here who is not in uniform. But I think it takes a certain amount of insanity to keep from screaming as he puts these men back together. He's either long past insanity or an angel. It's as simple as that.

I glimpsed at the privates records, he was 18. My heart stopped for a moment. Another young wasted life.

I had finished my day; I went in a daze to the nurse s dorm. It was a large room at the back of the hospital. The ceiling was low, in places you had to duck to save yourself from hitting the bed was at the far side of the room up against the window, I had a small chest of draws which I shared with Angela, Nurse Webber. I slumped onto my bed, kicked off my boots and lay back.

I felt the hot stinging pain shoot up my tired back.

I sat back up and reached for my most prized possession. A small picture frame, the person smiled back at me, his uniform perfectly fitting his lean body, he had combed his hair back, he had his hat tucked securely under his arm the picture didn't do him any justice. You couldn't see his thick auburn hair that shone in the sun or the green intensity of his , pictures could never do Edward any justice.

He looked so proud, so full of enthusiasm, almost as if he were simply going out to play football. But what makes this picture even more precious to me is that is shows his innocents.

I love him you know. I love him with all my heart. When this war is over we are going to get married, well after he has given me a ring, we will make it official. I smile blissfully at the thought.

Edward said that his parents have a cottage near their house that we will live in; we are going to decorate our room blue. Stop, I can't think any more of this, not yet. When the war is over I can think of this, when Edward is back in my arms we can think of it together.

This is a time of war, there is not time to be subtle, no time to waste on thinking of things that you can do nothing about. We go about our lives but we do not live them, if we were living them like we should we would all be home. Edward would be home.

Edward is fighting in Passchendaele, he tells me. I can hear the guns from here. It's an odd feeling; we are so near yet so incredibly far.

He can tell me exactly where he is, and I cannot tell him where I am to be exact either for the same reason as he.

I joined the VAD, voluntary aid detachments, with little to no thought of what I was really doing. I just wanted to do my bit, why should I sit at home whilst our men are fighting? It hardly seemed fair. So that is how I ended up in Passchendaele. This is how I ended up in Hell.

I have put my name down to be transferred to a convalescent hospital in dover, Edward says he sees no end to this war and that things will only get worse, they can only do so much to stop the enemy from getting across the channel, to get to England they will most likely go through Calais. I suppose Edward is right, things will only get worse, the war was supposed to be over by Christmas them all said. That was three years ago.

I took out my second most prized possession, a letter. It's a bit muddy and far being in a good state, but none of that matters, not to me. This was Edward last letter he sent me; I got it two weeks ago. I ve read twice every day since then and I will until I get his next one.

I will read it to you.

_Dearest Bella,_

_i hope you are well my love and keeping yourself safe, I only wish I was with you to do it. The airs changing here my sweat, not long now I don't think until I see you. _

_I am well, as healthy as a horse and ready to give fritz a fright, I don't think he will be able to withstand our British might for much longer, there is word going about that the German morale is low where as ours (excluding private McCarty) is rather high and dare I say it jolly!_

_I remember our day in Ypres, our meal at the restaurant. The way you looked that night, all rosy cheeked and bright eyed, an angel I m sure you are. This memory I hold dearer than your photograph. We will do that again dearest, I promise. When we are back at home I will take you to the best restaurant the whole country has to offer. Just keep thinking that my love as I do._

_Anyway I have to go now, Whitlock and McCarty are at each other's throats again and I am afraid they are going to save the Germans a job and kill each other themselves. Chins up my love._

_All my heart dearest, your Edward._

_Be _

"Be safe." I whisper back. That is our promise to each other. Those two words get me through the day and hush me to sleep every night over the hum and clatter of bombs.

His happy words only lull me into a false sense of security, they trick me into thinking he is as well as he sounds. But I know he isn't, I know what he must be seeing day in day out, and I ve seen it with my own eyes, smelt it and heard it.

But his letter and words are none the less a blessing.

Before long the room was awakened by the arrival of the other nurses. I put away my things and sat up to greet them. They wondered in in a flurry of grey and white, slowly and tiredly and found their beds. I smiled at them and some smiled back.

Nurse Webber came to her bed and lay down. She wasn't in the mood to talk.

I just put my head back on the pillow and concentrated on catching sleep. But it wasn't easy, snippets of the rooms conversation floated to my ears.

"40 more admitted into the flu ward this afternoon." Someone said

"It's getting worse, I counted 30 in the morning." Their friend replied.

"Epidemic." someone else muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.A few prayers were whispered. I just closed my eyes. Too much talk. I let sleep steal me away for another restless night. I will worry about this flu tomorrow.

_Goodnight Edward, Be safe._

**Wow this took ages to write. Hope you all enjoyed it. If you have any questions I will be more than happy to answer them. Please please please review and tell me what you think. Next chapter will be private Edward Cullen turn.**


	2. Chapter 2

**All recognisable characters belong to SM. x**

Edward point of view

**30th July 1917,**

** Passchendaele**

"Fucking boot!" McCarthy shouted over the raw of our guns. He bent down and kicked his boot off; it flew and landed into a puddle. He headed me his gun and marched over the fetch it, he picked it up and poured the slush out of it, he shoved his foot into it and made a start at wrapping the ratty putty around his calf.

"You know I've worn bloody slippers that were more water proof than these shitty-" he growled but was cut off by sergeant Everson.

"McCarthy! To your station!" sergeant Everson shouted, his gruff voice sending Macarthy running to his place.

I just shook my head and reached for my flask, fumbling the lid off I took a swig from it. I nearly gagged when the bitter tasting freezing liquid screeched down my throat. Bitter wind scratched at my nose and ears, my fingertips were beyond numb, I had lost feeling in them weeks ago, I had lost feeling everywhere. Each week something goes.

We have been here for 10 days under the constant roar of our bombardment on the Germans. 10 fucking days and still no indication of when we are to go over.

A scream rang out from around the corner, I knew that scream, we all did. Another man dead, I didn't feel the grief or alarm I would have felt at the beginning of the war.

Death happens and you accept it.

It changes you seeing the dead, seeing how they died and knowing that you could be killed by the same gun. I could be talking to one chap one moment then within a heartbeat he would be on the ground a smoking bullet hole in his head and his brains would be one the toe of my boot. Just like that, no warning. You never get warnings now.

"Cheer up pretty boy, it might never appen!" McCarthy joked. Emmett McCarthy a farmer's son from Wolverhampton, was the only soldier I knew who not bothered by the war at all (except the state of his boots). He joked and laughed like he was at home and not in a trench a little more than 200 meters from the Germans. Nothing fazed him. Death was just an accepted possibility to him; it didn't scare him and more than he found his boots confortable.

" Well it's happening whatever he's thinking about. Came a disgruntled voice, I looked down to see private Whitlock sitting on a crate ankle deep in filth reading a tatty copy of the_ 'Wipers Times'_ .

His helmet was firmly stuck to his head, a small puff of smoke escaped from under the brim every now and again.

Private Whitlock was an odd bloke; he was an artist back in Blighty. And like a typical artist he was prone to mood swings in the extreme. Some days he was cheerfully optimistic then some days he looked as if he were about to turn his own riffle on himself, and every other time he looked like he was going to strangle McCarthy with his own bare hands. Like I said a typical artist.

This trench was home, its endless length some known some unknown to me is home and it probably will be for god knows how long. We were waiting as we have been doing for a long time, waiting for the whistle. The whistle will only ever be blown for 3 reasons, one being a gas attack, the second is if we are to go over the top, and finally the third reason would be to signal the end of the war, the end of all of this madness. The last one being a non-existent hope.

Just then a shell rocket overhead a little close to us for our liking, Whitlock put his paper on his lap and looked up at the hellish sky, "We've been standing here for weeks, and what for?" he shouted angrily but was then was silent for a moment, he was breathing deeply as if to calm himself, I opened my mouth to say something but was cut off "And don't you bloody say its keep our country safe!" his voice was full of his trade mark malice.

As much as I wanted to tell him shut his gob I knew he was right. Whilst we are here our home is under attack, in 1915 zeppelins attacked London without warning, in the same year the Germans set their war ship guns on the seaside towns of Scarborough, Whitby and Hartlepool.

"Lunch!" a voice shouted as they came round the corner of the trench. It was Peter with a large box full of sandwiches, he handed us each one then carried on his way.

"Korr blimey! Bacon sandwiches ...i think." McCarthy exclaimed looked somewhat puzzled. Whitlock took a hesitant sniff at his and scrunched up his nose in disgust.

McCarthy took a huge hunger fuelled bite then paused I aint eating this shit, it takes like- he suddenly doubled over and vomited into the sludge on the ground. I took a bite and as soon as the bacon touched my tongue I knew what was the matter- the bacon tasted of dead bodies.

We though the sandwiches over the trench "They can have them!" McCarthy shouted wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Death is our constant unwelcomed companion, but sometimes I feel like I welcomed it needed it. Death is the only easy escape from this hell. Death is easy but not peaceful. I have seen men go over the top only to fall down like apples from a tree, one after the after the other. They lie on the ground in crumpled disfigured heaps and left to rot and decay into the ground.

I have had to dig trenches only to discover that when my spade hits something odd it isn't earth its dead bodies. We should be heading back to the support trenches soon; it's only a matter of days.

You tend to forget that you are ankle deep in mud, water and other indescribable things; you tend to not think that you have just stepped over a corps of your neighbour to get to the ammunition bank. War does funny things to you, it changes you.

"You got a sweetheart at 'ome?" McCarthy asked as he lit a cigarette, Nosy git. Whitlock muttered shaking his head.

"Yes actually." I replied smiling, just the thought of her brightens me. But then my heart does a summersault, she's not at home though, she's here in this devil infested place. She's at a field hospital. "Oh aye, you gonna put a name to her then?" he pushed, I laughed.

"She is called Be-Isabella." I said, her name does the same thing it always has if not intensified.

What I wouldn't do to hold her in my arms, to burry my face in her hair and breathe in her scent, I could almost smell her unique strawberry smell. I wanted to feel her silken skin under my fingertips; actually come to think of it I want to be able to feel my fingertips.

I heard them both laughing at behind their hands like school girls, I felt a warm blush radiate from my cheeks. I could tell that loud jokes were seconds away from being said. "Oh arr you got a picture of the poor bugger?" McCarthy joked and wadded his way through the mud to stand by me. I punched him lightly in the shoulder then dug into my pocket for a mettle tin. I keep all of my special belongings in a tin so they are safe from all the crap I kept the tin from my mother sent me home made scones (you can probably guess who ate them).

With numb hands I took the lid off amidst the letters and odd photograph was a small stiff square wrapped in an old copy of the Wipers Times . I un-wrapped it carefully to reveal the immortalised face of Bella Swan.

My smile was returned by her sweet lips, eager eyes stared back at me, you could almost see the brown luxuriousness of them in the sepia picture. She was wearing the dress her mother had made her for her birthday; it was a beautiful forgets me not blue. And forget it I won't. "Well aint she a pretty penny!" McCarthy whistled looking over my shoulder. I nodded in agreement my heart tightening painfully. Whitlock came sludging over to use, "Here let me have a look." He said trying to hide his interest.

I showed him the picture he too whistled. I felt a swelling feeling of pride arise in me.

With a heavy heart I wrapped the picture back up and tucked it away in my tin. "What about you two, do you two insufferable idiots have lady loves? And if so, why?" I asked laughing and received two shoves on the shoulder.

McCarthy puffed out his chest and declared "Yes I most certainly do, and by god is she a looker!" me and Whitlock exchanged one look then doubled over in laughter.

McCarthy grumbled indignantly.

"Carry on." I told him restraining my laughter. He glared at us before carrying on.

"Her name is Rosalie hale and she is a goddess. Rose is the daughter of the post mistress, I have known her since we were young children, and I think I probably bullied her when we were younger because she was ever so cold towards me.

I used to go to the post office when I running a few jobs for me mother and she would be there. She worked behind the counter. To be perfectly honest I went to the post office even when I was meant to be. Well after a while she couldn t with stand my charm and agreed to let me court her."

He stopped abruptly, a sad glint taking over in his previously enthusiastic eyes. It was a look I was sure inhabited my own eyes.

"Go one mate." I encouraged,

he took a deep breath and carried on. "We courted for about a year, you know I can remember every single time I took her for a walk or took her for tea, I can even remember every single gift I gave her. She is an angel, because only an angel could love a bloke like me, Wellington boot covered in shit and all.

I remember the day I ask her to marry me, it was a lovely day in spring 1914, I borrowed a friends automobile because I knew Rose had an obsession with them and took us both for a spin in it around the village and into the countryside. We stopped by the canal and I ask her if she wanted to be my wife, she said yes... or words to that effect. We planned the wedding to be around Christmas, the war didn't bother us because we thought it would be over by then and I wouldn't have to go to war and fight. But fate is a bastard and had other plans. She's a nurse now and me a soldier."

A tear glistened on his muddy cheeks leaving a sad trial as it went.

"Wow we have a hidden romantic amongst us; I never knew he had it in him!" Whitlock exclaimed trying to lighten the mood like only he seemed to be able to do.

McCarthy let out a pitiful laugh and turned around picked up his rifle and set to work cleaning it his shoulders hunched and head down.

"What about you Whitlock?" I asked him. He stretched his arms then sighed heavily "She's called Alice; she works in a munitions factory in London." Was all he said, I could see that under all of the grime on his face he was blushing.

"You know for an artist you don't elaborate much." I laughed; he just shrugged "I'll tell you more tomorrow." He answered before readjusting his tunic.

McCarthy turned to me and said "Oi pretty boy, you heard about that Yorkshire lad crawly I think his name was-" Whitlock cut him off "You mean the coward Crawley?" he spat the man's name as if burnt his mouth.

"C'mon mate, do you really have to be so harsh on the bugger?" McCarthy said trying to defend the man. Whitlock just grunted, swore then lit a cigarette. I was instantly intrigued.

"Who were you talking about?" I whispered, he looked up at me then turned around to look at Whitlock who was facing the other way and appeared to be busy.

"Well." He started his voice low.  
>"You know when we were in Ypres in spring, well it seemed that this lad called Crawley lost his nerves and scarpered. They hadn't noticed we were missing till the morning." He laughed then before continuing.<p>

"Stupid sod didn't get far, officer Everson and the other bastards caught him not three miles away from Ypres. Well as you could imagine they weren't best amused, from what I hear he was screaming all the way back to Ypres." He stopped and took a long drag of his muddy cigarette.

A sickening feeling of anticipation gnawed at my empty stomach, I was gripped by his story. And I felt no shame.

"The big wigs had him done for desertion and cowardice. There was no saving the poor bugger. They shot him two days later behind the town hall in Popperinge."

There was a sad finality in his voice. I felt sick to my stomach, we were supposed to be killing the enemy and here we were shooting each other. We have blood on our hands and it s not just the enemies any more.

It was then that Whitlock spoke up "He was part of the Essex regiment at the battle of the Somme. They were virtually whipped out. Crawley hadn't been the same since." His voice was neutral.

I had heard of the extinction of the Essex s everyone had, they were practically all gone in a matter of hours. The Canadian Newfoundlanders were also destroyed that morning. It could be us soon.

"At least we have the tanks ay, they do and half scare the shit out the Germans. You really should see their faces." McCarthy said trying to lighten the mood Whitlock had forced on us.

"They had bloody tanks at the Somme and look what happened to them. The useless pieces of crap broke down." Whitlock commented. McCarthy kept quiet.

Suddenly loud agonised groans sent us leaning against the side of the trench as two stretcher bearers marched hastily past us; a soldier lay crippled on the canvas between them, his foot haphazardly bound with a crimson bandage. He's shot himself in the foot. "Coward." Whitlock murmured.

Me and McCarthy just shook our heads in a mixture of pity and disbelief. The sky had darkened but it was still ablaze with the whistling of shells and the resulting explosions. We all settle in a place to rest, Whitlock on his crate and McCarthy leaning against the wall.

"Fucking boots." I heard McCarthy grumble before sighing heavily. I settled onto the duck bored shelf and leant my head onto a sodden hard sand bag. Closing my eyes I conjured up the image of Bella and tried to drown out the roar and hysteria of the bombing with the sound of her laugh.

I tried to think of her in a white dress, standing for me at the end of the isle of the little parish church, I tried to imagine the way the stain glass windows would reflect onto her porcelain skin. I will write to her tomorrow, I already know what to say to her. I willed sleep to get me and soon.

"Men, your attention please!" opening my eyes I saw sergeant Everson walk towards us the other men from around the corner gathered with us. I sat up and tried to look presentable.

I could tell by the look on his face what he was going to say.

Tension as tight as violin string encased us all.

"At 3:50 tomorrow morning we go over. Prepare your selves." With that he bowed his head and walked away.

The air froze.

**Thank you for reading I hope you all enjoyed it. Please please please Here is a few notes to answer any questions you might have .**  
>The Wipers Times was a newspaper written at the front for the front, it was produced by soldiers in the 12th battalion Sherwood Foresters in France. It was full of British humour (which meant some of it was good and some of it was shockingly bad) it was a bit of entertainment for the troops to keep moral up. The battle of the Somme was in July 1916, it consisted of a 7 day bombardment by the allies onto the German held trenches. It was more or less a failure, the British bombardment failed to cut the Germans barbed wire and to kill the troops there. When the allies went over the top they were mown down by German machine guns. As I mention the Essex regiment and the Canadian Newfoundlanders regiment were practically wiped out. Over 19,000 died in that battle alone. It was named the worst day in British history.<br>**If you have any questions please feel free to ask**


	3. Chapter 3

**I own nothing.**

Bella's point of view 

I did not feel well today. My head felt like someone had stuffed hot cotton wool into it.

But the show must go on, there are sick and wounded who need attending whether or not i have a sour head.

I looked around the breakfast area. There was a distinct feeling of loss. I was surrounded by death constantly, blood even stuck under my fingernails. I had seen things that a few years ago wouldn't have even been present in my nightmares. But it seems that only now has the war hit me, I am used to soldiers dying but I am not a soldier I am a nurse, now the Nurses are dying.

It's all just so sudden.

The clock said 5 o'clock; all should be up by now and here eating breakfast.

Accept those empty seats and bare plates were not to be taken as the previous occupiers were dead. The flu had taken five more through the night, Nurses Towers, Jones, Carter, Cook and Hally. All gone within the blink of an eye.

I try to keep my spirits up, it will do no one any good to mope around, I can do that when the war is over.

Through the big double doors came ward mistress hale, she was looking worse for wear than I felt. She spotted me and came to sit beside me at my empty table.

"Good morning ma'am." I said, she returned the greeting.

We ate in silence, no cheery topic to be spoken of, just the dim and depleting breakfast room chatter to tide us over.

"I want you to mind the flu ward this morning." She said, those careful blue eyes clouded with fatigue.

I felt my stomach drop to the floor; I really did not wish to be there.

"But I thought nurse-"

She cut me off "She passed away last night." Was all she said, there was clearly no room for argument.

"Yes ma'am." I said defeated. Nursing is not optional, I can't pick and choose. I have to keep telling myself that if the boys are willing to fight and die then I'm willing to care for them. It was least I can do.

We were silent for a moment. I watched the other nurses chatter between themselves, consoling each other.

Mistress Hales hands shook as she sipped her tea, the china teacup rattled against the saucer, small droplets of amber slipped down the curve of the cup and splashed into a small puddle.

"You are looking decidedly pale today Nurse Swan. Bed early and a cup of lemon and honey tea before you do." She ordered with a vague hint of sympathy and gentleness.

"Yes ma'am."

I wondered if she obeyed her own medical orders.

Someone rang a bell from the other side of the room. Time for the shifts to begin again.

I walked to the flu ward checking my uniform was all straight and perfect as I usually did.

I could not wait for the day to end so I could seek comfort in the blackness of sleep. I looked forward to dreaming of Edward.

Edwards point of view.

Passchendaele 3:30

My boots were too tight; they nipped at my ankles like savage dogs or hungry rats. It hurt despite the water freezing them.

Whitlock was checking his rifle, polishing the bayonet with an old sock until it sparkled in the awakening morning sun. It was quit spectacular actually to see something bright in the bleakness ahead of us. His face was completely still, no emotion, nothing.

I wasn't nervous, I think I am scared but the hammering of my heart in my chest felt something similar to the way I felt before going to see Bella. I think its called anticipation.

I looked down the row, Biers head was bowed and his black fingers danced across a small silver cross. I never knew he was religious.

McCarthy, poor bloke, was in a little more of a state than me, he tried to look brave and menacing but the way he held that photo of his rose betrayed all of his acting efforts.

He needed distracting "McCarthy?" I asked

He looked at me "Can you do me a favour?"

"Yes." He said in a clipped tone.

"Flowers. If anything happens to me I want you to find Bella and give her flowers." I told him, my throat seemed to thicken as I said her name. Her name sounded like a prayer, so out of place and beautiful compared to the trench.

I wanted to make sure Bella knows she will always be in my thoughts even if I should die.

"And my mother, make sure she is safe and well. She hasn't been doing very well since my father died." I felt guilt creep up on me, my mother did not want me to join up and fight, not like I had much of a choice.

McCarthy was silent for a moment as if words had disappeared.

"Of course he will but you can give them to her yourself you lazy sod!" Whitlock laughed. He was trying to keep the spirits up; I had heard him say once that it was better to die laughing than crying.

McCarthy seamed to collect him self suddenly "What type of flowers Ed?" he asked and formed a note pad with his hand and pretended to take a pen from his pocked.

"Sun flowers, she likes the sun and the heat." I said fondly smiling at the memory of Bella lying in that meadow near the brook in the village we live in. She was so beautiful that day; the world was so at peace back then.

McCarthy then pretended to write it down in a hurry.

I looked down at my watch. 3:40.

Not long now.

10 minutes.

I could feel my heart beat in my fingers as they gripped my riffle; I imagined it was Bella's silk hair beneath my fingertips rather than the rough wood.

I suppose now would be the time to say one last goodbye to Bella.

I pulled out her photograph, it wasn't in a very good condition anymore, but I could still see her eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes.

Her face made me calm as I closed my eyes and savoured it, engraved it on my soul and my heart.

"We will be together again soon Bella. I promise." I whispered.

"Aye, I'd say we will be back in our nook and crannies cuddling up to rats in no time." Whitlock said a ghost of a smile on his face. I just looked at him amazed at his candour at a time like this, I wondered how he could be so calm and detached.

But of course he wasn't, he could argue from pillar to post but he was frightened, you could tell. It's always the ones with brick walls built up behind their eyes who are the most frightened.

I hadn't noticed it before, but it was quiet. Horribly quiet.

No gins, no hell fire. Nothing.

"They're saving it all for us pretty boy." Whitlock said as if reading my thoughts.

I suppose he was right.

"Brace yourselves lads. When I blow my whistle we go, one line after the other, no stopping." I heard sergeant Everson declare from down the line.

His unspoken words rang out for all to hear. No stopping until you reach the trench unless you get gunned down or blown up.

My heart really started hammering then, like a drum.

I looked down the line, men got themselves sorted, checking this and that, some had their heads bowed and hands clasped in prayer, some kissed photographs and took one last read of a letter memorizing the fond words of a loved one. And then there were the men that just stood still, like statues, staring ahead, and waiting.

A lark sang overhead, a short sharp tune greeting the still morning air. Such a brave little thing, it looked so odd and out of place in this opening of hell.

For a brief moment I wished I was that free little bird with the ability to get far far away from here.

Everything froze at the imminent moment as the sergeant brought the whistle to his lips. Boots hitting the wooden ladders along the line of the trench rang out.

It all happened in a flash then, the whistle sounded my hands and feet were on the ladder, I was climbing.

And then I was running and stumbling.

The ground exploded and belched out mud water and bodies. I shielded my eyes.

The barrier of men was falling around me, one on each side like dominoes.

I panicked, I couldn't see anything but grey dotted with green. Noise flared as the bombs dropped from the heavens.

My foot got stuck in some slush. I looked down.

"Keep your eyes straight ahead pretty boy!" I heard a voice screamed at me from behind. I did as it said just in time to duck an explosion of shrapnel.

It was Whitlock. I felt a flash of relief that he was still alive, still with me.

I hadn't heard the screams until now. They were louder than the guns.

I just stared straight ahead into the foggy chaos, my rifle pointed forward, finger on the trigger. Ready.

"Edward, tell McCarthy to keep his fucking head up!" Whitlock screamed from somewhere to my side.

I spotted McCarthy, his head was bent. "McCarthy look up and straight ahead!" his head snapped up.

"Is that you Ed?" he shouted looking around frantically.

"Yes!" I screamed back.

I saw them both move closer to me.

Suddenly my feat weren't beneath me.

I was flying.

I opened my eyes and looked around me in a slight daze. Everything was hazy.

"Ed?" someone shouted besides me, I turned.

It was McCarthy. But he wasn't alone; across his legs was the distorted figure of another soldier.

It was Whitlock.

Were in a crater, we must have been blown back by a shell as it exploded.

My legs hurt.

I crawled towards him. The mud soaked me to the bone.

I pushed Whitlock so that he was face up. His eyes were barely open and there was blood all over him, it seeped into the water and grey mud.

"Whitlock?!" I shouted, my words sounded jumbled up.

"Alice?" he mumbled.

"No it's me, pretty boy." He said but he didn't hear me. He closed his eyes and let out a single staggering breath.

"He's dead isn't he?" McCarthy asked eyes wide.

I just nodded.

With as much strength as I could muster in my aching arms I dragged him off of McCarthy's legs. I crossed his arms over his chest and placed his helmet over his face. A mark of respect he deserved.

His body will be found after the battle and buried properly.

I looked to McCarthy, "We have to carry on."

I crawled back to the brim of the creator, positioned my rifle in front of me. Men were still stumbling around us moving forward.

Kicking my backwards I stumbled out of the hole. It was now or never.

McCarthy was in front of me, he turned back.

I could see him screaming, eyes wide and horror struck beneath the layers of mud and blood.

A sharp pain in my chest took me by surprise. I fell and felt dust all around me as the sun rose.

Bella's point of view

"Bella, do you want me to save you a place at dinner later?" Nurse Webber asked me, her kind face sweaty and tired. She had been in the amputation room all day.

I wiped my hands and savoured the cold water for a moment.

"No it is ok. I'm going to bed after I finish here." I said.

Throughout the day I had felt worse. I think I am just tired; it had been a long few days after all as the casualties coming in multiplied in numbers.

Nurse Webber looked at me with worried eyes. I waved her off "I'm fine, just tired." But it sounded too weak to be a believable excuse.

Suddenly my heart started to hammer and my head went all foggy.

I gripped the wash basin to stop from falling.

"Whoa, steady there. You better get to bed; I will send Doctor Cullen to come take a look at you." She said gently and wrapped her arm around my waist to steady me as I walked.

The hallways seamed to just fade away as we made our way to the dormitory.

I think there were other nurses sleeping in bed.

"Bella, I'm going to tuck you in now." I heard Nurse Webber say. I felt the soft cool sheet of my bed beneath me.

"Thank you, you had better get back down stairs, Mistress Hale will eat you." I said to her closing my eyes.

I felt her hand on my forehead stroking it gently. I heard her healed feet walk out of the room leaving just the faint sound of larks singing outside.

My chest felt heavy but my body felt light as if there were no strings holding me to the ground anymore. A sort of peaceful anticipation washed over me as I started floating.

November 11th 1928

It was an oddly bright morning with just a trace of frost still remaining on the grass. A woman walked soberly among the white pristine rows of headstones, a bouquet of flowers clutched in her hand.

Her heart was heavy in her chest, it had been a while since she had been back to Calais, but she had an important reason. Where once the burial places of her comrades were simple and lacked the praise the glorious dead deserved, were now fitting to their sacrifice.

The woman searched among the stones until she came across the one she was looking for. The head stone was nestled between the headstones belonging to her fellow nurses.

She smiled at seeing the name.

Bella Swan, Great Britain, Nurse of the Great War. 1917, age 21.

She was a victim of the Spanish influenza, one of the estimated 50 million. She had died before it was an epidemic, before the rest of the world got to experience it. The woman had lost many comrades due to it.

She bent down, removed her glove and traced her friend's name. A small tear trickled down her cheek.

It was then that she noticed something.

There at the bottom of the stone was a bunch of big bright sun flowers. The woman just smiled and placed her flowers next to them with a small message written on a card.

To Nurse Swan, flowers to tell you I have not forgotten you and I never will. Your friend, Nurse Webber.

Nurse Webber wiped away her tears, kissed her fingers and placed them on her friend's headstone.

She stood and took a step back and bowed her head in respect. From the corner of her eye she saw the figure of a man, he was tall and heavily built, and he walked slowly with the aid of a walking stick, a short crop of dark brown almost hair crowned his head, in his hand was his hat. He walked with his head bowed.

Nurse Webber turned and left the cemetery leaving her old comrade and the hundreds of others to their eternal rest with a smile on her face knowing that, despite the years Nurse Swan was not nor ever will be forgotten.

**In Flanders Fields**

In Flanders fields the poppies blow  
>Between the crosses, row on row,<br>That mark our place; and in the sky  
>The larks, still bravely singing, fly<br>Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago  
>We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,<br>Loved and were loved, and now we lie  
>In Flanders fields.<p>

Take up our quarrel with the foe:  
>To you from failing hands we throw<br>The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
>If ye break faith with us who die<br>We shall not sleep, though poppies grow  
>In Flanders fields.<p>

John McCrae, 1917

**This story is in remembrance to all those who fought both on the frontline and those who gave their time and lives behind the lines of fire. This is also in recognition to the brave people in the armed forces today. Thank you.**


	4. Chapter 4

**In memoriam**

Words are very easy to conjure up, they can mean very little, however it is the feeling behind them that gives them gravitas and spirit. And so that is the way with these words here on this page.

It is with a sentimental nostalgia that we reminisce on times gone by, back when life was more innocent, simple and very black and white. But in the paradox that is history, life before us was also more brutal. We can't possibly understand the minds of our grandfathers, great grandfathers or mothers, our forebears, we can try through stories, through films but we will not know, and for that we must be eternally grateful. But that does not mean we should not remember the details, the feelings the fears of those that gave their today for our tomorrow.

But what can we do today? Well, we can write about the War, the soldiers, the nurses, the people and the victims, because the more we do the more we will remember, the more lessons will be learnt, the more we will value peace and understand the need for forgiveness.

To be forgotten is the worst fate that can ever be bestowed upon you. They were not just names in a column in the newspaper, nor are they just names carved into stone, they are your family and they are my family.

I write this, not as a member of the winning fraction, because in reality I cannot call myself this and I have no wish to, I write this as someone who wishes simply to honour all of their sacrifices, the big and the little, the sacrifices in mud, in blood sweat and tears and those in their hearts. For as the poem goes:

_They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
>Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.<br>At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
>We will remember them.<em>

**The Great War. 1914-1918**


End file.
